One Last Year
by SomeCoolName
Summary: Hardly a year remains until Gregory Lestrade graduates from South Wales University, one year and he'll be part of the police force. And the fact that Sherlock Holmes, an intriguing young freshman, just arrived on the campus won't change a thing... Right? / University AU-Sherlock Exchange prompt.


**Note:** Hi everyone! Here's my contribution to the "What if?" Sherlock Exchange challenge. I had the chance to have **Shellysbees**' prompt, which was "What if Sherlock had gone to uni with the Yarders?". The story will be four chapters long and will be published as the same time as my other fanfiction _So Brave, So Quiet_. No Johnlock but tons of Sherstrade. The story takes place in 1997 at South Wales university, and every places and courses mentioned really do exist.

**Rating:** M (smut)(obviously).

**Beta:** the incredible and so talented **Morwen Maranwe**!

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><p>He opens his eyes, leans a hand on the mirror covered with condensation to see his wet body fresh from the shower.<p>

One year. One last year and finally all of this won't be only a dream but a reality. Even better it will be his everyday life. Gregory inhales while sticking out his chest, turns around to observe the abs he's been working on for four years, but his eyes automatically lift up to his beard-less face. It's more professional to have his chin smooth so he won't cry over his traditional holiday's beard he had to get rid of. Instead, he twists his mouth, pulls the corner of his lips as low as possible and barely frowns his eyebrows.

"Are you talking to me?"

He looks spitefully at his reflection for a few seconds and smiles while leaving the bathroom - it was a bad idea to watch _Taxi Driver_ before the start of school term.

One year, he repeats, walking with his wet feet on the beige carpet until he reaches the wardrobe next to his bed, one year and he can finally join the police force. This dream began when he was 8 years old, when at Barmouth's Spring Festival about ten policemen had officially come to make sure everything was okay but had unofficially come to stuff down hot dogs and beer. Gregory had never let go of his father's hand, as every time they were attending a big event like this and his curious little eyes scrutinised at lenght the black uniforms, the polite but firm smiles of those (smiles you don't need this word) way more muscled than his dad and their cheerful, although a little bit sad gazes. He had pulled on his father's jumper to hold his attention and asked him with a shy voice:

"Dad, what are they doing here? There's no bad guys around here, right?"

James Lestrade had pressed mayonnaise-covered thumb against the paper towel and had leaned toward his son to whisper in his ear:

"Do you know why you don't see bad guys here, son? That's because _they_ are here," he had said, pointing his finger to the few policemen who hadn't been running to the buffet. "The real courage is invisible. The true strength is to not to use it."

Gregory's eyes had shined so strong that James Lestrade never told him he had read the sentence in an advert for washing powder which was all over the newspaper back then. But it was decided anyway: Gregory Lestrade would be a policeman and he too, discreet and strong, would protect England.

His shirt finally buttoned up and his trousers on, Greg whistles that No Doubt song, the biggest hit of 1997, and for the hundredth time runs a hand through his brown hair to make sure none of those bastars didn't decide to turn white. In some families, it's the bald gene which is feared by the men. In his, it's the grey hair even before the thirtieth birthday.

In the ground floor hallway for his dorm building, he salutes Linda and Mike and congratulates them again for the engagement ring the young red-head wears henceforth on her left hand. He sees Mr. Reynolds and carefully avoids walking in the puddle the old man is spreading out with his mop, then finally arrives in the hall where his cousin, Phillip Anderson, is waiting for him, already seated on one of the black couches, his suitcase standing next to his loafers

"Greg !"

"Phillip," he calls before hugging him. "Shit, you're so tall now, your mum wasn't kidding!"

"Right, grandpa..." says the younger man ironically, resting his hand on the plastic end piece of his wheeled suitcase.

Gregory smiles, one of those fixed grins which means '_fuck you'_, and puts his hands in his pocket before starting again:

"So, are you ready to take the plunge?"

"Yeah, but it's too bad it's your last year, I would have loved to be at university at the same time as you."

"Four years of training, that's enough for me, thanks! But you'll love it here, I'll show you around. We're only five minute walk from the university and shops, it's really useful. You know what, go to your room first, to settle in, and we'll see each other after, okay ? What kind of room is your mother paying for?"

"A... _Single Silver_, I think," answers the younger man.

"Like me, it's on the first floor. You'll see, it's small but you won't need much more." Gregory smiles before putting his hand on his cousin's shoulder.

_One last year._

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><p>He slowly turns around, his hand plunged into the pockets of his dark vest, and he is already not listening anymore to the man in charge who brought him here. It's enough - at least he tries to convince himself. Through the window he sees the park, the students screaming and hugging the friends they didn't see during the summer, and in the distance is the university, all dressed in red bricks, surrounded by reeds and pointless flowers. Everything is so <em>boring<em>.

"Mister Holmes? Is everything clear?"

Sherlock turns around and smiles like he was taught by pulling and pulling harder at the muscles around his mouth, none of which he really understands the usefulness for anyways, and nods his head."

"Very clear."

The man looks at him one minute more - useless deed however funny - and puts the younger man's key on the kitchen table, before turning around and leaving him alone in his new flat.

_Four more years._

* * *

><p>It is 7pm, the plastic glasses lie side by side on the table on which a yellow paper tablecloth was rolled out, sodas and juices are lined up and beers are out of the fridge. A welcoming party for the freshmen takes place every year; around 1pm liquor magically come out of the elders' coats and, of course, about 10% of the guests end up with their head over the toilets. In the past, a second year student used to kick the door open and storm in with a gun to scare the freshmen, until 1992 when one of them hit him in the face by reflex. The association of students then decided to cancel this theatrical surprise.<p>

Standing next to the stage in the gymnasium, which is also used as a community centre, Gregory thanks his friends and the few remaining teachers that came to congratulate him for his speech. It did not surprise him when he was asked, as the president of the association of students, to give a welcoming speech to the freshmen for _the training of their life_. Whether one likes it or not, the young man radiates a magnetic and warm aura that everybody values and respects unconditionally. He gets that from his father and will never complain about it.

As the gymnasium turns into some kind of nightclub, he weaves in the crowd, the groups of friends dancing, and the couples making out. He pats the shoulder of David Bowl, who keeps downing more and more drinks, and finally finds his cousin, accompanied by a woman.

"Can you introduce me?"»

"Ah, Greg I was looking for you! This is Sally, Sally Donovan. I told you about her, remember?"

"Yes sure, you were together at school in Cardiff, right?"

"Yeah, since we were 12 I think,smiles the young woman, shaking Gregory's hand.

Greg grins and waits for Sally to look somewhere else before admiring her silhouette. Sally is a beautiful blend of ethnicities whose hair has clearly been smoothed back before being attached in a high ponytail. She has covered her eyes with a complex make-up but what he really likes are her lips. Greg never liked too thin lips - his experience has shown thin lips aren't pleasant to kiss. Not that he thinks about kissing Sally Donovan. Well, not that much.

"That was a great speech, " compliments the tempting lips.

"You are polite, thank you."

"Really, it was very..."

"Paternal," interrupts Philip, hiding his mocking smile behind his beer.

"No, I wouldn't have said that..." answers Sally, not even trying to hide her laughter.

"Don't worry, Greg always had the paternal fiber. Look, nobody even dared to speak during his speech!"

"Well, I see you already started to drink without me. It's time to join you in your inebriation because now I'm feeling lonely," says Gregory teasingly , grabbing their shoulders before heading to the buffet, so far, far away.

On his way he is congratulated again and thanked for his encouragement. When he finally gets to the buffet he needs to touch it to make sure it is not a mirage. Then he has to choose between a beer, a beer or a beer. A beer it is.

He grabs a bottle-opener, and a wrist twist later he leans the bottle to his lips before turning towards the dance floor, which is getting hotter every second.

But in this huge room, in which a strong smell of sweat is rising, there is a blue shirt, steady, wrapped around an unknown body. Gregory slightly turns his head and does what he was taught to do for three years now : he inspects.

The guy is young, certainly a freshman. A brown shock of hair that is obviously cut by the hands he is hiding in his pocket. And those _eyes_. Lestrade has seen a lot of pairs of eyes in his life but none like these. They are incomparably sharp and seem as clear as water, but with the yellow and red spotlights, Gregory cannot see well.

"You're hesitating?" asks Greg.

The sentence just comes out, it's even clumsy, but Greg suddenly feels this stupid and vital need to say something in order to catch the young man's attention before he disappears for some reason.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Between beer and beer, what will you take?" laughs the older one, drawing closer to the young man and finally perceiving the sharpness of all of his body.

"There's only alcohol."

"Well done, you'll be a great detective," » he is slightly ironic, but the hard gaze the younger one gives him immediately shuts him down so he continues: "You don't drink alcohol then?"

"No."

"Ah. What do you want?"

"A fruit juice."

"Okay. Fine."

Gregory inspects the table at the speed of light as if he were on the most important crime scene and he only had eight seconds to find the clue that would make him stop the biggest serial killer in history, but his heart starts to beat faster and he has to capitulate: there's only alcohol in the room.

A glance to his right and he distinguishes the younger man's lips half-opening; oh gosh he's _sighing_, he's about to leave. Everything in his attitude screams out boredom and Gregory hates it - it's not that he doesn't like to be near someone in a bad mood, but he doesn't like to _leave_ him like this.

"Come."

The freshman looks at him, seems to hesitate a few seconds and ends up following him. In Gregory's body resonates the bass of the Backstreet Boys' song that has been turned up to full volume, despite being covered by the students' singing, but he forgets everything about it and pushes the swinging door and takes the younger man in the hallway which leads to the storehouse.

On the linoleum, their shoes are squeaking and it's simply ridiculous. The older man turns around several times to smile at the new guy but he can't say a word. Above them, the white bulb has finally reavealed the green color of his eyes and the not-so-manly sound he drowned in his throat was his only possible reaction. It's been two years now that Greg has looked at men with any interest, but he'd be damned if he is going to hit on a freshman, especially on integration night

He sweeps away all these thoughts by closing his eyes for one second and opens them at the same time as the pantry's door. The room is not very big but it's also a boiler room, so there's a perpetual whirring which is deadening the party's sound even more as it continues without them. The older man leans forward and opens a carton box full of fruit juices.

"What do you want?"

"... Tomato juice."

Greg looks at the brunet above his shoulder and smiles; _no one _ever asks for a tomato juice.

"There," he says, giving him the little glass bottle before passing his hand across his forehead and searching for something to drink, to try to make the situation less awkward than it already is.

But even with an orange juice in his hand, everything is just... weird. Gregory kind of likes it. He leans on a table in the center of the room. In front of him, the new guy slowly drinks his red juice, his eyes fixed on the older man, but it's not a gaze like anyone else's. For sure, it's not a gaze which means '_Kiss me, right now, and do use your tongue'_ - and Greg doesn't know if he must be relieved or not - but it's not a haughty gaze either. It's indefinable and that's the worst. But the brunet man ends up by sitting next to him and at least they're not looking at each other anymore.

"I think you're the first one who didn't congratulate me for my speech."

"Of course not, it was _very_ uninteresting," the sentence flaps in the air with such a cold tone , Gregory understands it is very much _not_ a joke.

"Ouch."

"What?"

"That was... sincere."

"And you say 'ouch' when someone tells you the truth?"

"When it questions my speeches, yes."

They turn their heads at the same time and look at each other; Greg smiles and the other one immediately looks away.

"I'm Gregory Lestrade, by the way."

"I know."

"What about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"Your name is... ?"

The younger man seems to hesitate - which is extremely weird - and gives up before occupying his mouth with the glass bottle:

"Sherlock Holmes."

"_Sherlock_."

"No comment."

"Okay."

They dive back into silence like it is freezing water and the older man is pierced by shivers. It's definitely weird. It's definitely pleasant.

"I'll go now," says Sherlock suddenly, after a long minute without speaking.

"Ok," answers Greg, looking at the brunet getting off the table before heading to the door they left wide open. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sherlock."

Gregory looks at him turning around, just one second before Holmes resumes its path in the big hallway where his shoes go _shreek-shreek_. Gregory particularly liked how the word '_Sherlock'_ felt on his tongue.

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><p>In his bed, lying on his back and his eyes wide open, Sherlock looks at the ceiling. Everything is black and white tonight. A bit like his life after all. As usual, sleep is an illusion; by far, it seems possible, but lying down between those sheets, he has the concrete proof rest is not at all imminent. Because of his bloody big brain.<p>

He sights and surprise himself by raising his legs on the wall on his left. He's stretching out more and more, turns around his body and ends up with his head exceeding over the bed. He feels blood coming up his temples. He pulls a bit more on his sleeves and closes his eyes.


End file.
